Note: I promised last week a discussion of techniques in developing characters, however were I to append such a discourse to the material I have posted below I would turn this blog post into a small novel. Therefore, I shall touch upon the subject briefly, but leave an in-depth discussion for a later post.

Last week we scratched the surface on the subject of characters in stories—why, from an audience's standpoint, they are essential to any tale. But from the writer's standpoint, there is much more to be said on the subject, and what there is to say is far more interesting.

If we begin from the premise of this last week's blog entry—that characters are essential to a story because of our natural interest and focus on the travails and destiny of living, mindful beings such as ourselves—it becomes clear that the characters do not merely populate the story, but are the story. To a writer, characters are important to a tale because discovering the characters reveal the plot and thus the thrust of the film, short story or novel they inhabit.

In understanding characters and their import, it helps to define what we mean by a story and discern its essential elements. A story, according to dictionary.com, is "a narrative, either true or fictitious, in prose or verse, designed to interest, amuse, or instruct the hearer or reader." A narrative is further defined as "a story or account of events, experiences, or the like, whether true or fictitious." What can be gleaned from these definitions, after we cut away the circular references, is that a story is the account of happenings in a real or imagined world. Traditionally, such tales are said to comprise the major elements of setting (which deals with the character of the world in which the story occurs), mood (the emotions affected by telling of the tale), tone (the attitude of the narrator or storytelling agent towards its contents), plot (the developments of note in the story world), conflict (the clashes, struggles and travails that make the plot notable in the first place), and the élement du jour, characterization, which deals with the life and nature of the agents engaged in the conflict recounted by the tale.

In the popular imagination, "story" is almost synonymous with "plot." When we think of a story, we think of a series of events defined by conflict: the inception and resolution of a war; a young couple falling in love only to find the whole world, and themselves, getting in the way of their romance's consummation; an entrepreneur going into business and hitting the big-time only to lose it all on a gamble. What is notable about all of these examples is that these events are intricately tied to the travails and fates of characters. I challenge the reader to find a single film or novel of any worth whose events have nothing to do with a human presence. Were I a betting man, I would place a small fortune on the odds that no such work would be found. There is a good reason for this phenomenon: not only the fact I mentioned in my previous essay that humans are incorrigibly interested in one another, but also the fact that every event in the world is precipitated by a natural or human agent. Nothing happens spontaneously: it all has a cause, be it deliberate or incidental. The deliberate parts are more interesting, because when sapient agents are involved there is some uncertainty as to the outcome, and more investment on our part in the fate of those agents. We call those agents, these movers and shakers who are dimly aware of what they are doing, characters.

Thus it becomes apparent how characterization creates not only a story but its plot as well. If all events have a cause and a plot is a series of events, then characters are the causes of the plot. As imagined willful beings, their actions and the consequences of those actions are what set the narrative's course toward its conclusion. Likewise, the nature of (and events in) the world around them will influence their actions, and thus plot, setting, and character become tightly interwoven. When masterfully executed, a story will flow naturally from the nature of its setting and characters.

Thus, an intimate understanding of the players in a tale is essential to its development, because they are the key to the narrative. Too many stories today, in all media, have poorly developed and predictable plots. One can point to many causes, but I personally suspect that much of it has to do with inattention to character. Certainly three recently released films, Shane Acker’s 9, J.J. Abrams’ reboot of Star Trek, and Jim Cameron’s Avatar, all suffer from significant disorders of characterization which affect their overall power as stories. I would go so far as to say that they all, to some degree, try to shoehorn their characters into an anemic plot.

9, for example, is a rather cliché tale about how the intellect is easily corrupted without the heart to guide it. The pivotal character in expressing this theme is the Brain, the creation of the same scientist who made the film’s rag-doll protagonists. Though the Brain has no speaking lines, through the account of its maker we learn that its lack of a soul led it to be easily influenced by the dictator who usurped the scientist’s work.

The notion of the primacy of the soul over the mind is so commonly accepted that a tale based on the idea can only belabor the point. Because the character of the Brain was designed to fit in with that theme and the fairly standard plot that accompanied it, the story was stunted. If Mr. Acker had exercised some logic and imagination in developing his villain, however, a more interesting story could have been developed. A salient and useful counterpoint in considering these possibilities is the example of Asimov’s robots. In I, Robot and Asimov’s other novels dealing with androids, the kind of catastrophe caused by Acker’s Brain is averted by programming three laws into all robots’ AIs, the first and most important being that a robot “cannot harm a human or, by inaction, allow a human to come to harm.”

Asimov’s treatment of artificial intelligence raises an interesting question in the context of 9: why does the Brain have to be programmed to be so corruptible? If, in Asimov’s world, the question of artificial morality is one of programming, why not in Acker’s? Other questions raise themselves. Can a being of pure intellect be considered good or evil on its own merits? Can’t a human with a so-called “soul” be as corruptible as the Brain itself? Isn’t corruption as we know it something that only happens to beings with motivations and desires, which are in and of themselves irrational and non-intellectual? It seems that for an AI to be truly corruptible, it would have to possess more humanity than is implied by Acker’s story.

9 is fundamentally about what makes us truly human, and for that its director needed a monster for its plucky, soulful homunculi to overcome. But had Shane Acker looked into developing the character of his villain more, had he asked more penetrating and seemingly inconvenient questions while developing his treatment of that intelligence, perhaps his movie would have had more interesting things to say on the subject, instead of beating his audience over the head with clichés. After all, as the questions in the previous paragraph indicate, the subject is hardly a simple one. It might have resulted in a more interesting plot as well, had the Brain showed disturbing signs of humanity and the “stitchpunk” homunculi more signs of corruptibility. Instead of a straightforward “use the talisman to kill the monster” plot, toward the end the story could have twisted such that it became unclear if destroying the monster was the right thing to do. Or perhaps one of the stitch-people could defect, making it difficult for the protagonists to perform the necessary deed. Either way, rethinking the characters on a basic level could have resulted in a far more compelling thematic thrust.

The case of9 demonstrates that a villain’s character can be as important as a protagonist’s, and that is further illustrated by the case of 2009’s remake of Star Trek. Nero, to put it bluntly, is a terrible villain, and the story and plot as a whole suffers from his hackneyed flatness. Sure, he rages with snarling menace, possesses a mad death-wish for Spock, and threatens a few planets with destruction, but what of that? A villain, or antagonist, exists as an obstacle or threat that the hero, or protagonist, must overcome. By providing his challenge to the hero, the villain defines the shape of the story’s conflict. The story may be about the protagonist, but it develops, at least at first, on the villain’s terms. As such, the methods and motivations of the antagonist are just as important as those of the hero: providing the antagonist with depth confers that depth into the conflict, and forces unusual developments and resolutions in its rendition.

With these truths in mind, Nero fails as a villain because he is stark raving mad, and his madness is without method. The writers of Star Trek give him a token backstory: his planet was destroyed, along with his wife and unborn child. There is some potential in this scenario, but the screenwriters quickly drop the ball. Instead of exploring in detail the consequences these events have on his psyche, they simply chalk it all up to “it drove him crazy and he wants to kill everybody.” Without a solid motivation, the villain cannot provide a competent challenge to the hero, and he becomes less a character and more a force of nature. Without the villain’s challenge, the conflict risks going stale, and if the conflict has no vitality, neither does the plot.

As it stands, Star Trek doesn’t have an easily discernible plot. Something resembling one arises in the third act, where the crew of the Enterprise must stop Nero from imploding another planet. But before that there’s not much resembling one, and that is largely because the conflict isn’t well defined. Kirk grows up a brat and goes through Starfleet Academy, and Spock grows up troubled and goes through the Academy as well, but neither protagonist is provided with a goal that unifies their actions. From a writer’s point of view, one way of resolving this problem is to lengthen the long arm of Nero.

Imagine if the film’s Romulan antagonist had been given more method to his madness. Perhaps he’s still obsessed with revenge, but think of it: he’s been transported back to a hundred years before his time with a ship advanced even for his own era. A humble miner has never had so much power. In the long interval between his first appearance in the 23rd century and his attack on Vulcan, he could have easily retreated into Romulan space, replaced the leadership and launched a full-scale invasion of Federation space. This at once defines Nero’s character, turning him into a conniving political bully, and provides a conflict whose scope provides a compelling background against which the protagonists develop.

Working from the villain backward, it is now possible to flesh out some of the other characters. In the film as it stands, Abrams’ Kirk grows up without a father. The man was conveniently offed by Nero at James T’s birth. Why not run with that? Kirk’s pain would likely draw him to Nero, and with a full-scale invasion led by the man it becomes far easier for the prospective Captain to accomplish such a goal. And when Kirk finally meets Nero, he may discover an adversary more human than anticipated, forcing him to rethink any dreams he may have of wiping the Romulan off the face of the universe.

I speak in generalities, it is nonetheless apparent that greater attention to the development of characters would have greatly improved the interest and impact of Star Trek’s plot, and that the character of the antagonist can be an important key to the story as a whole. Jim Cameron’s Avatar, however, is a situation where its story deficiencies stem primarily from a lack of protagonist definition.

It can be argued that the true protagonist of Avatar is not any one of the individuals populating Pandora, but rather the Na’vi people as a whole. The moon’s blue-skinned cat-people possess a culture gifted with wisdom modern man would do well to heed. The Na’vi apologize to the animals they kill for food, indicating an admirable respect for life. Such a quality does establish some sympathy for their people, and this sentiment combined with stunning visuals manage to ease the viewer through the film.

However, true empathy with the Na’vi people becomes difficult, as the individuals of that culture are essentially stock characters. While there is much development of the ways of the Na’vi, the minds of its people are left bare. Even a few lines dedicated to fleshing out these personages would go a long way to exemplifying the virtues of the Na’vi, and increase our investment in the lot of all of the members of Pandora’s tribes.

Furthermore, the characterization that does exist in Avatar is problematic for its theme. The paraplegic hero of the story begins a jarhead and ends a brave, but the most significant change he makes is the side he serves. There is not as much indication that he had learned the deeper lessons to be learned from the Na’vi’s way of life. If instead of hissing at his old C.O. when accused of being a “traitor to [his] species,” he had said “This isn’t about sides—this is about stopping a tragedy,” the impact would have been much greater. There would’ve been no question that our hero would’ve been a changed man, and his transformation would challenge us to make similar alterations in our lives. Again, rethinking character increases the overall effect of a story.

The question comes to mind now: how do you develop your characters, if they are so important to the story? Hopefully the preceding paragraphs have provided some inkling of the technique behind this important skill. At its heart, it’s about asking questions: Who is this person? Why does he do what he does? What does he want? How does he accomplish those goals? These are difficult and often inconvenient questions, but they are essential. Nor are they the only ones: any story is bound to raise a herd of mysteries on its own. Solving these quandaries requires the full application of one’s experience with people, not to mention insight into one’s self and the psyches of others. It is a difficult task, to say the least, but as we have demonstrated today, it is worth the effort. A detailed discussion of developing characters shall have to wait for another post, but the mere act of posing difficult questions is itself a huge step not only on the road to making a character, but telling a story with that personage as well.